


We Absolutely Do Not Need to Talk

by firstnameagent



Series: The Fake AH Crew (& all their demons) [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Angst, Depression, Fake AH Crew, GTA, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Suicide mention, drug mention, if you didn't catch that from the first two tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:05:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4318113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstnameagent/pseuds/firstnameagent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a criminal is something Ray can handle. Robbing banks is something he can handle. Being one of the most feared men in Los Santos is something he can definitely, one hundred percent handle.</p><p>Heartfelt conversations with friends? Not so much.</p><p>Alternatively, basically just this tumblr post:</p><p>Me: i wanna jump off the roof<br/>everyone: do we need to talk abt it?<br/>Me: no its fine im always like this</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ryan the Awkward Conversation Guy

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So I'm way too invested in this stupid GTA AU, apparently, and I'm tentatively making into a series of feels trips. And I decided to split it up because... I don't know. Change of perspective? I have my reasons. Supposedly.
> 
> Anyway you should probably read "One Cocaine, Please" before you read this. Thank you!

Ryan’s driving Ray home from a heist gone absolutely average—decent take, not too many people shot, only a smattering of injuries between the six of them. Ryan himself is holding his thumb out from the steering wheel at an awkward angle; he caught himself wrong on a bad dive and probably at least dislocated it. Ray’s peering up at his forehead in the passenger mirror, split open by a very poorly judged jump. Surface injury, though, at least. 

“So,” Ryan begins, and Ray immediately tenses up because that’s his _I know some shit_ voice. “Been talking to Gavin recently.”

Oh, for the love of God.

“Yeah?” he says, slamming the mirror up. “Sucks to be you.”

Ryan makes a _hmmph_ noise. “Seemed pretty concerned about some things you’d said.”

Ray glances out the side window, pretending very hard not to react. _Note to self. You talk too fucking much when you have a boner._

“Yeah, well,” he says, “Gavin’s concerned about a lot of shit. Every time he loses something he thinks someone’s stolen it.”

“Usually someone has,” Ryan points out with a smirk. It slowly fades from his face. “I’m trying to have an honest conversation here, Ray.”

“And I’m not. Shit, sorry, did I not make that clear?”

Ryan lets out a deep sigh, and Ray finally looks back over at him. Him and his soft, concerned expression, eyes that have transitioned through the car ride from “filled with bloodlust” to “basically a dad.”

Fuck. Why did he always have to be the one to reassure people?

“I’m fine, Ry,” he sighs. “Whatever Gavin said, it’s not a big deal.”

“Interesting,” Ryan says instantly, latching onto the one stupid olive branch Ray stupidly extended. Stupid. “Because he got near-blackout drunk the other night while you were away and started babbling about ‘lovely Ray’ and ‘bloody suicidal’ and something I didn’t quite catch about a rooftop.” 

_While you were away._ Ray is pretty sure he knows what night Ryan’s talking about—few days ago, when he’d gone out in the morning and not come back until the next evening, just decided to go off to one of his private apartments and take a vacation outside of his own head. It had been nice. Trust Gavin to ruin that. 

Ray desperately tries to keep his breathing even as Ryan continues, “And then he threw up. And passed out in my bed. It’s the first part that concerned me, though, if you were wondering.”

“I’m not—” he starts, but his stupid _fucking mouth_ won’t let him even say the word. “He’s overreacting, okay? We had a conversation, I said some shit, yeah, but it’s not a big deal.” And that’s already more than he should be giving to Ryan—just deny it happened in the first place, for God’s sake, or tell him Gavin misinterpreted, or just fucking say _something_ convincing. 

But for a career criminal, he’s always been pretty shitty at lying.

“And I started thinking,” Ryan pushes on, “about some of your behavior. And I have to admit, there’s more than a few red flags.”

“What are you, Web MD?” Ray says, because fuck this conversation, honestly.

“Wonder what would happen if you typed your symptoms into there,” Ryan mutters.

“Symptoms,” Ray scoffs. “What fucking _symptoms_?”

But he has to fold his arms to keep his shaking hands out of Ryan’s line of sight because he doesn’t have to wonder what would happen, he’s plenty aware what the internet tells you is going on when you tell it you can’t sleep without pills and you’re never hungry unless you’re high and you can’t focus on a god damn thing if there’s not a sniper rifle in your hands. He’d gone and taken potshots off the roof at pigeons after that little adventure. 

“I’m not trying to diagnose you, Ray,” Ryan insists. “I’m just trying to help.”

“You don’t need to,” Ray says. “I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that,” Ryan says, “and not actually addressing the question.”

“Actually ask me the fucking question, then,” Ray spits, because anger’s a better feeling than fear, an easier emotion to box up and send out.

And Ryan, eyes still trained on the road, easing onto the gas until they’re speeding down the highway, says, “Do you want to die?”

It shouldn’t hit him like a ton of bricks. It should _not_. It’s exactly the question he knew was being asked, it’s a question he’s asked himself before, it’s just a fucking question. But he opens his mouth and tries to say “no” and it won’t come out, so out of desperation he tries to say “yes” but that won’t, either, and he doesn’t even know which one is the god damn lie.

He only realizes he’s been silent way too long when Ryan starts talking again. “See, Ray, people who are ‘fine’,” he says softly, “don’t need to think about the answer to that for that long.”

“Fuck you,” Ray says, and that comes out just fine.

“Ray.”

“And fuck Gavin, too.”

“Yeah, that was another thing he mentioned the other night.”

Ray rolls his eyes and slides down in his seat. He’s perfectly aware he’s acting like a grumpy child, but the alternative is actually addressing the rate at which his heart is going or the sick feeling in his stomach, and that’s never gonna fucking happen.

“Apparently you’re a good kisser, if that’s any consolation,” Ryan says. He gives Ray a few blissful moments of not saying anything before he lets out a sigh. “You can talk to any of us, you know that, right?”

Ray laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but he laughs. “Oh, yeah,” he says, because all the stops are pulled out at this point, so what the fuck, right? “Hey, guys, how are you, how’s breakfast? Cool shit we robbed the other day, huh? By the way, I’ve been real down in the dumps for about five years running now, any of you know how to make that better? No? Cool, didn’t think so.”

Ryan chews his lip, slows the car down a little. “Did you just use the phrase ‘down in the dumps’?”

Ray rolls his eyes. “Cut me some fucking slack, man. I’m opening up to you or whatever.”

And Ryan laughs softly. “You’re right,” he admits. There’s a pause, and then: “Five years?”

Ray squirms in his seat. “I don’t know,” he says. “Yeah, more or less. I’m not real good with time.”

Ryan nods slowly. He starts tapping his fingers on the wheel in thought before he remembers they’re all fucked up, and he hisses in pain. “I’m guessing if I mention there are professionals in this city whom we’ve paid handsomely to keep our on-goings a secret, you’d laugh in my face.”

“Ding ding ding,” Ray mutters. (And besides, it’s not like he doesn’t already know that. Geoff’s anxious as all shit and he seems to like whoever the fuck he goes and talks to on Sunday mornings. It’s just… not something Ray’s about to do in this or any lifetime.)

“Figured.” Ryan just drives for a while, like he’s constructing exactly what he’s going to say in his head before he says it.

“I was in a bit of a rough shape before I met you all,” Ryan finally says. “Just a little too reckless, you know? Stood too close to explosions, wore too little body armor. Lot of it was this ridiculous feeling of invincibility. Little of it, though.” He pauses again, Ray suspects literally just for dramatic effect. “You know that apathy? The one where you feel like you’ve seen it all, done it all? Where you get to a point where there’s so much blood on your hands it doesn’t really mean much, anymore?”

Ray’s lungs feel emptied out, because, _Did You Mean: the last five-ish years of my life?_

“Yeah,” he says, or he’s pretty sure he says it.

“I don’t know of a cure for it,” Ryan admits. “Still comes in waves sometimes. Moving in here, though. Seemed to help.”

They start to turn down the street to the penthouse, the other two cars already parked out front. Ray realizes briefly that the drive took a lot longer than it should’ve; he’s pretty sure Ryan took the long way around to keep him talking. 

As they roll into the driveway, Ray can hear himself starting to say some shit again. “Look,” he sighs, “I like you guys. I like the crew. I like all this shit. And I’m not… I’m not about to, I don’t know. Whatever. I’m trying, alright? I am.”

And he hastily starts to get out of the car and slam the door, because he’s about to start crying like the absolute biggest pussy in the entire world, but Ryan’s just as fast and follows him step for step the whole way to the elevator and puts his hand over the fucking button to stop him from hitting it. 

“I’m not saying you’re not,” Ryan says. “Just that you should probably find some ways to cope that aren’t hard drugs.”

“Soft drugs?” Ray quips back, forcing a smile. Ryan does not return it.

“We like you, Ray,” he says. “Gavin, the poor misguided soul, seems to love you. I just don’t want anything happening to you.”

“Dude, are you seriously threatening me not to kill myself?” Which is a sentence that he says jokingly but that leaves the worst taste in his mouth because, as referenced earlier, _absolute biggest pussy in the entire world._

Ryan winces a little and takes his hand away from the button. Ray jabs it as quick as he can. “Believe it or not,” Ryan says as they step into the elevator, “not everything I say is a threat.”

“Might want to take off the creepy-ass skull mask once in a while, then.”

“Ray,” Ryan says sternly, and Ray can tell he’s about to launch into some other sentimental bullshit. But apparently God doesn’t hate him that much, because the elevator doors slide open and they’re home and the window for serious conversation has slammed gloriously shut.

“Where the hell have you guys been?” Geoff asks as soon as they step in. He’s busied himself with cooking dinner while Jack counts the money, spread out on the living room floor in neat piles.

“Took the scenic route,” Ryan shrugs, and they all accept that because apparently nobody questions Ryan and fucking everyone questions Ray.

“Did you guys fuck?” Michael asks, draped over the couch watching Jack sort out their take. Everyone chuckles and Ray rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t miss Gavin’s slightly worried expression and ah, fuck, Ryan might be right about that one.

Ryan just grins that vaguely disturbing grin. “C’mon, Michael, give me a little credit. We’d be gone a lot longer than that.”

And they start bickering about that, thank god, the attention firmly directed away from Ray. He eases himself down next to Jack, almost leaning against her shoulder. She pats him on the head briefly before going back to her sorting, and he watches the money and drowns out the noise of the penthouse and tries, desperately, to undo the knot in his stomach.


	2. Ryan the Tragic Backstory Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW specific to this chapter: Drug overdose-ish, referenced homophobia & suicide.

Despite what his friends seem to think, Ray recognizes pretty quickly when he’s fucked something up. 

He’d like to think he’s kind of an expert at drugs by now. It’s not the healthiest talent to have, but it might be the most fun. So when he’s off by himself in his favorite apartment, just trying to get some peace of mind after a particularly bloody week, and his hands start shaking and his lungs start to seize, he catches on pretty quickly.

He half tears apart the place looking for his phone, which he should really have on him at all times, stupid, _stupid._ The screen’s already starting to blur when he manages to find it, unlock it, scroll through his contacts trying to pick the least painful option here. Finally he just his one of the names and at least has the presence of mind to put it on speaker phone, because his hands are absolutely not gonna comply with holding the phone up to his ear.

“Hello?” Ryan’s voice fills the apartment. “Ray?”

“Hey,” Ray says, his voice sounding far away, and of fucking course he called Ryan but thank God at least it’s not fucking _Gavin_ , at least this guy can _drive_. “I need you to come get me.”

He can hear Ryan sigh, the barely-concealed concern. “Where are you?”

“My apartment on fifth,” he says, and shit, he’s shivering, not good not good. “I think I might be overdosing a little bit.”

 _“Ray!”_ Ryan shouts, and he can hear his feet pounding the floor, probably running, and some part of Ray’s brain wants to cry for some reason. 

“A _little_ bit,” Ray emphasizes. “I’m not dying, I think, probably, I’m just gonna be here on the floor, alright? Just gonna stay right here.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ryan’s voice says, and there’s the rev of an engine, and Ray’s eyes start to slide shut. He thinks Ryan keeps talking to him, keeps swearing at him, but the rush of blood in Ray’s ears is way louder than that and it’s all he can do to stay halfway conscious.

*

When he opens his eyes again, he’s in Ryan’s bed.

He vaguely remembers being picked up, being strapped into the backseat of a not technically street legal car. He remembers passing out a couple of times, sometimes against his will, sometimes not. He remembers Ryan’s voice. It’s a nice voice.

Ryan’s reading a book. 

Ray looks at him, staying curled up on his side. Ryan’s propped himself up on a bunch of pillows, legs crossed, dressed like a fucking civilian and reading a book. He looks wholesome. He does not look like someone occasionally called The Skull who has a reputation for unnecessary carnage. 

“You’re awake,” Ryan says, turning a page. He doesn’t look at Ray. Judging by the tone of his voice, Ray’s pretty sure if he did the gaze would burn right through him. 

“So are you,” Ray says, except his mouth still feels full of cotton, so it comes out as a vaguely sarcastic sounding groan.

“That was unbelievably stupid,” Ryan continues. What the hell is that book even about? It’s gotta be six hundred pages long.

“Nah,” Ray says slowly, taking his time on each syllable. “I feel like it was believable.”

Ryan finally looks over at him. He slams his book shut and, seriously? It’s about World War I? Who the fuck reads about World War _One_? That’s like, the Star Wars prequels of world wars.

“Ray,” he says, and that concerned tone is back, even though he’s trying valiantly to cover it up with anger. “That was accidental, right?”

Ray would laugh if Ryan didn’t look so worried. “Yes,” he says insistently. “Stuff I got was stronger than I’m used to. Didn’t think about it. Stupid mistake.”

Which is the absolute truth, for once, but the way Ryan’s looking at him still makes his stomach clench. “And you’d tell me if it wasn’t?” Ryan continues. 

Ray doesn’t answer that time.

Ryan sighs. He’s gotten good at that. He stares straight ahead, looking contemplative, as he reaches over with one hand and gently starts playing with Ray’s hair. It looks almost absentminded. Ray has to shut his eyes to stop the expression on his face from betraying him.

“I grew up in Georgia,” Ryan begins softly. And that’s not a revelation or anything—he talks about Georgia a lot, whenever the rest of them complain about the heat or the humidity and every time they buy peaches. “Small town. Rural. Real middle of nowhere kind of place.”

“Nice place to torture and kill animals?” Ray mumbles, and he’s rewarded with that hearty chuckle.

“I had this friend,” Ryan continues, and Ray realizes with only very mild discomfort that Ryan didn’t actually deny what Ray said. “Very nice southern boy. Sandy hair and big blue eyes and all that. Farmer, so he was built like he could lift a farm animal in each hand. Church every Sunday an hour and fifteen minutes away. We went to school together.”

Ray bites back any sarcastic comments he might be about to let out, because Ryan’s voice has gone all soft and reminiscent in a way it only does when he talks about home. 

“He liked me,” Ryan says. “Fell in love, if you can do such a thing when you’re sixteen. I was okay with it. Never understood the taboos against it.”

He sighs again, a different kind of sigh, like if he doesn’t his lungs will explode.

“He wasn’t. He kissed me, once, and I ended up having to comfort him afterwards. Said he was going to hell. Another concept I could never get behind.” 

His fingers tighten in Ray’s hair, and it kind of hurts, but Ray opens his eyes and sees Ryan’s faraway look and doesn’t say anything about it. 

“He ended up telling his parents. Out of guilt. And they sat him down and confirmed everything he’d thought. That it was wrong. And that he was sick. And that he needed to get better. And when he told me about this little meeting he’d had, a few kids overheard.”

“Shit,” Ray mutters, because hey, he was once a sixteen year old kid with an affinity for dick, and he knows how that usually goes over.

“Yeah,” Ryan breathes. “They called him names. And words. Things he’d already called himself to me. High school, you know? Like having your own private echo chamber.” 

Ryan pauses, and pauses, and Ray’s about to call him out for a shitty ending to a pointless story when he finally says: “He hung himself senior year.”

“Oh,” Ray says. “Fuck.”

“Mhmm,” Ryan agrees. “I moved out here shortly after that. Thought if I ever saw his parents again I might kill them.”

Even if Ray didn’t know Ryan as well as he did, he’d know he wasn’t exaggerating. There’s no trace of jest in his voice and every trace of anger, untampered by the last twenty-odd years. 

“Well,” Ray says, because he can only keep his sarcastic asshole of a self contained for so long, “I’m not depressed because I like banging dudes, if that’s what you’re worried about. That’s kind of the best part of my life right now.”

Ryan manages a small laugh and it’s the nicest sound Ray’s heard in a while. “No,” Ryan says. “I’m well aware. That wasn’t the point.” 

“I know,” Ray admits. “I get it. You’ve ‘lost people before’ and all that bullshit. And you’re worried I’m gonna off myself. And this place is gonna be one big orgy of grief and mourning when I’m gone. Yeah?”

Ryan laughs slightly. “Yeah. Just about.”

And Ray’s about to repeat the same old refrain, the _I’m fine_ and _I’m not gonna do it_ and _Don’t worry_ , except now he’s seeing the look in Ryan’s eyes for the first time, this unfiltered fear. And he can picture the aforementioned sadness orgy, can picture Geoff smashing bottles all over the place, can picture Gavin’s pathetic face looking crushed, can picture the rest of them, too, and he’d be fucking lying if he said it didn’t hurt.

Not that he’s staying alive for any of them, exactly, because that’s gay even for him. It’s just. Sometimes he forgets how many people give a shit, what with him not usually being one of them.

“I’ll ease off the drugs, okay?” he blurts out, and Ryan looks at him in surprise. “I’m gonna regret saying that, but. I will. I’m not saying I’m gonna get clean, because drugs are fucking awesome, but I’m… I’ll ease off.”

“Good,” Ryan says skeptically, like he’s waiting for the next _but._

“And I…” _Fuck this, fuck having friends,_ “I’ll let you know. Okay? Just you. Not any of the other assholes that live here. If I’m feeling…” And he just kind of waves his hand, because no, he’s not ready for that level of honesty, might as well keep it vague.

“Okay,” Ryan agrees, and he looks like someone just bought him a goddamn puppy.

Maybe Ray should. That’d be a riot.

“You happy?” he grumbles.

And Ryan’s eyes are a little bit brighter, and he has a small grin on his face as he says “Yes.”

“Good,” Ray says, rolling over because nope, he’s not going to start crying, not here, not now. “If you’ll excuse me. I’m gonna pass out again.”

“Be my guest,” Ryan says softly, and Ray can hear him pick up that stupid book again, rifling through the pages. 

He falls asleep to the sound of his stupid asshole of a friend reading the worst book of all time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! I would super appreciate if you'd leave comments on things you liked, didn't like, want to see more of, etc. Next up is a Ryan-centric mini arc thing.
> 
> Also, the views of the characters do not represent the views of the author and World War I is fucking fascinating, shut up Ray.


End file.
